Saturday, July 21, 2012

Watching from the Field

Me over my dead leg, quotient of the ocean
It's a question of protection while I'm peaking with the spoken
The psalms songs and stories are a sequence of problems
Life's laws outstretch as we're seeking to solve them
Without the sealant of solution we may crumble & fall
Stumble and stale, rupture within rounds of applause
Bite death down during a silent exposure
While the all supposed master meets the starlit composer

Boy this world is an oyster, girl this globe is a pearl
And in it's changing and transitions we travel far and unfurl
Our very make and mold redistributes each day
As desires of dawn fold into yesterdays fate
May we function awake, lead and seed demonstration
Never hold, hesitate, or let it breed to stagnation
For life is a fluid whose only anchor is flux
And it's moments of time likens the changes of us

Let it seethe, let it beat, and allow it to shine
Give it all, push along, to and fro for and by
For in unwritten benediction we indulge or deny
It's many forests and fires
That sculpt our eyes in surprise
From the murkiest mud to an unearthly light
The stone littered gulches 'neath the highest of heights

How can you deny each an all deserved rights?
From the loneliest cold of those greying and old
Alive in regret from never seeing the world
Or never cherishing dreams that may blossom or die
And inhabit the wise territories of skies

To the postulated person thinking in terms of the church
Looking for forthcoming flight, denying mid-evil urge
Paging the scriptures by order marking the sentences bold
All the while without smile his mind is dreaming of gold

The aristocrat thinker, terming what's best for the team
The adolescent scraping dollars frictioning way through his teens
My eyes glow and glisten to celebrate free
Out of each and every one forms an image of me
You see...All these people are alter aspects of me

I watch my children from the field and it likens to love
Whose forgoings are distant, whose renewals are plush
With all that's witnessed still so much remains untouched
By the image, the word, the pen or the brush

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